Our great glory and our great tragedy
by Sanogon
Summary: "What is honor compared to a woman's love? What is duty against the feel of a newborn son in your arms ... or the memory of a brother's smile? Wind and words. Wind and words. We are only human, and the gods have fashioned us for love. That is our great glory, and our great tragedy." Maester Aemon Genderbent


" _What is honor compared to a woman's love? What is duty against the feel of a newborn son in your arms ... or the memory of a brother's smile? Wind and words. Wind and words. We are only human, and the gods have fashioned us for love. That is our great glory, and our great tragedy." ~Maester Aemon_

 _We'll do it_ , she had said, _together_ , voice small and faint, a far cry from the strong and confident voice that bellowed in the throne room, despite all the scrutinizing gazes that landed upon her, searching for fault and flaws to pick at and use against her, including himself, he thinks with guilt, _but I didn't know her then_ , he reminded himself. He thought he was going to meet a northern barbarian, a savage embodied into a womans form, but instead he received a queen in truth. Where had he gotten that notion? That northerners were more savage than civilized? Perhaps Viserys, who's judgment always called for question, he should've known better than to listen to his fool of a brother. Daeron had let his pride and arrogance get the best of him, but to be fair, she had a pride that matched his own, stubborn and unrelenting. And he loved it, by the gods he loved it.

He stared idly at the wooden door with the iron direwolf encrusted into its exterior. It snarled at him, almost as if trying to bait him away from the door, and he had half a mind to listen. Who is Daeron to knock upon this girls door, to call upon her heart with earnest, to have her and make her his own? A man who's known enslavement and humiliation, who's received the short end of the stick for the better part of his life. She deserved better, a man who matched her worth, who was her equal. The Queen in the North, the first Lady Commander of the Night's Watch, the one who liberated her people from the reign of the treasonous Boltons, the one who restored her house and brought her family together, who brought a divided north together, a divided Westeros. Her words alone broke the stubborn will of Queen Cersei and the northern men followed her because they believed in her. She was an accomplished woman, who deserved better than him, a man who's only offered her scorn and ignored her pleas. _But then you did listen, you flew north for her, lost a dragon for her, gave your armies to her before she swore fealty and now you seek to give yourself._ It took a speared dragon to bring him to his senses, it took her risking her life on that folly of a mission, to make people believe, to make him believe. The sight of the closed wounds that decorated her chest came to mind, _a knife to the heart_. A woman who died for her people, and would do so again, for their lives hold more value in her eyes. Who was he, a foreign invader, to ask of this woman, this woman who's honourable to a fault, good and just and true of heart? _Who would ever dare love a dragon?_

The confidence he once had threatened to break as self doubt bit at him. There beyond the door with the snarling wolf, held the woman he yearned for, he reminded himself. _I am Daeron Stormborn of House Targaryen, the Last Dragon, the Stallion who Mounts the world, the Breaker of Chains, the Unburt, the…_ And yet none of those accomplishments, those names mattered to Lyarra, not even the titles that people bestowed upon her.

In a way she was just like him, always fighting for others without a care for herself, putting her life on the frontline while others waited in the back. She's known love, he sees it in her brooding gaze and in the way she carries the sense of loss, the same weight he carried, she's known betrayal and heartache, he can see it in her tired grey eyes, the coldness that's settled within them from the weight of the world that's been forced upon her shoulders and all the troubles and worry it entails.

She would accept him, she already has, she told him herself. She'd love a man like him and she'd be fine with just Dany, nothing more would impress her.

Knocking on the door, he waits with bated breath, his mind spinning in anticipation and anxiety, in fear of rejection.

The door opens slightly, revealing her moon pale face, long with high cheekbones and sharp grey eyes that seem to look through him, reading him and sensing his intentions before he can began to word it in a unintelligible nerve wracking mess. Her lips part and face flushes, eyes locked with his own in silent question. It's only a few seconds later when she swings the door open, beckoning him inside, and he marvels at how well they understand each other without uttering a word.

It isn't long before their fingers grasp, discarding one another of clothing rather fervently.

With every touch her skin feels like a sleet of ice beneath the palms of his hand, tinged with a peculiar coldness that makes him quiver. She embodies the north in every way, it's no wonder they chose her for queen.

Warm hands runs over the curves of her body, the widespread of her hips, the firmness of her thighs and the roundness of her plump arse. Perky breast press against his hard chest that's rippled with muscle and toned from years of training and battle experience. Vaguely, he wonders how many battles she's had of her own, remembering how light on her feet she was when she fought against the dead men. Swift and quick, she moved with an ease that rivalded his own, a greatsword in her hand when she sliced through them like butter. Dark Sister, he thinks.

They find the bed, and he finds her shifting herself on top of him. _She's to small for me_ , he remembers telling Tyrion not to long ago, and that statement still holds true. For all her might she's too small for him, barely reaching his upper arm with his massive height, and she struggles as she straddles his hips, her fingers propped on his broad chest. For some odd reason, the sight entices him, her small form wriggling to sit comfortably making him grow painfully harder.

The heat between her legs hovers above his own, hestiance and uncertainty in her eyes, along with the same longing and desire that reflect in his gaze. Gently, he guides her onto his length and watches in awe as it parts her open, watches as she arches her back and closes her eyes, mouth parted in a 'O'. Despite the wetness that seeps down her thighs, it takes time before she reaches the base of his shaft, and a little more before she slowly begins to grind on him, needing time to adjust to his well endowed length. He both loaths and savors the slow pace, the sensation of her warmth wrapped around him tightly. Daeron wants to increase the pace, fighting off the urge to jerk his hips, to flip her over and ravish her being with passionate kisses and groping. Already his patience is waning, her slow movement so good he wants it to continue, so agonizingly pleasurable he's both reluctant and eager to bring it to a halt.

Lyarra leans into him, and she's never felt so warm, her hot breath smells of pine and mint, streams of midnight dark curls hanging above him like a curtain, heavily scented in rosewater and rose oil. Winter roses, she had told him once, were her favorite, and he had thought of the crown of blue roses his brother gifted Lyanna, the parallels eerily similar, for the crown Rhaegar gifted had lost them their own crown.

His fingers find her hair, running through them like water and waves, soft as flour and thick as the Dothraki sea, and they get lost in the dark mass.

Their bodies move in sync, melting together like fire melting ice, they might as well be two parts of one whole. That is what it feels like, when he flips her over onto her back, no longer able to restrain himself, his shaft slipping out in the process before he dives it back in swift motion. "Oh, gods," she squeaks almost helplessly, and he feels her clench and unclench around him, making him growl out a husky "Yeah," repeating the same motion to get the same reaction. _Yes, this is what being whole feels like._ Their skin contrast against the other, moonlight pale blending into a sun kissed bronze, his silver strands tickling her face.

Legs spread wide and hips meet his rapid thrust while he manages to swallow the whines released from her sensual lips with chaste kisses, as she takes in his barely contained pants and moans. Strong hands lock her face with his, bumping their heads together, the tip of his nose rubbing against her own. Unintentionally, in a moment of fervent passion, he licks her lips, savoring the taste of mint, salt and a tangy sweetness he finds, making him blush in embarrassment after.

Daeron draws back to breathe in, to contain himself before he is to far gone. How is it that she undo's him this way? Makes him neglect all self-control? He's taken aback at the love in her dark grey eyes, how easily he gets lost in them, lost in her touch, rekindling something inside of him he thought lost and long gone. "I…" he begins, but can't finish, and his eyes glisten in unfallen tears. There are no words to describe how he feels right now. They shouldn't be doing this, he shouldn't feel this way, and yet he's drawn to her in a way that can't be explained, he should've stopped this feeling the moment it began to appear, should've stopped himself from acting on impulse alone, and yet he came to her door knowing what he wanted and she let him in, knowing what she wanted as well. Her warm calloused hand takes hold of his face, thumb running over his cheek in a conveyance of understanding and comfort, lips twitching in a crooked smile, and he takes it all in. Her hair a pool of dark curls on the furs beneath them, the candlelight illuminating the affection in her gaze, that shy and uncertain smile that sprouts a dimple on her right cheek, breathless and flushed from the air he's stolen from her lungs. He takes it all in, so that he may never forget it, how he's hopelessly forgotten others. She gives him a long kiss and his tongue slips into her mouth, desperately fighting for dominance over her own and they fall back into their tumble.

His erection begins to twitch inside of her, and a combination of fear and excitement settles in his stomach making the moment feel like a feverish dream than reality. He can't. He shouldn't, and he wont. His seed is cursed, and avoiding to release in his lovers for the past few years has not changed this curse.

But he doesn't want to ruin this moment, doesn't want to hurt her because of his own fears, and deep down inside, the side that still hopes beyond hope that maybe one day he'll carry a warm bundle in his arms, wants to bury his seed within her womb.

The pressure and heat in his groin swelled, the sweat on his abdomen mixing with her own, their bodies bumping and grinding against each other in their final moments of ecstasy,and she clings to him in attempts to keep up with his movement until he gives a final deep thrust. The pressure unwinds and his worries are seemingly forgotten as he cries out " _Lyarra"_ , repeating it moments after in a faint voice, her name becoming a forbidden prayer on his lips.

Lyarra lets out an unbidden gasp, shuddering from the warmth of his hot sticky seed seeping deep into her, panting relentlessly and her breathing mirrors his own.

/

The night was filled with endless lovemaking, the first time being the first of many. Then sometimes they switched from sex to conversation, expressing their hopes and fears, the troubles that plagued their mind more often than not, the mutual understanding they have of the burden that comes with ruling. The trials and tribulations they've both endured, the journey they've had that led them to this point. She spoke of her family, of Winterfell, of the old gods that she neither doubted nor believed in and the north in all its harshness and ancientness, her words alone expressing the love and sorrow she held for it. Contented with her warm body encompassed into his hot embrace, he listened to her rich soothing voice tinged in northern baroque, surprised himself with the laughter that reverberated through his chest when she told tales of her childhood, of her younger sister Arya committing mischief and little brother Bran never containing himself to the ground, her brother Robb who she claims was good and true and reminisced on his smile that lit a whole room and the snowflakes that melted in his auburn hair and he shared stories of his own, the little happy one's there were, with the brick house and the red door and the lemon tree by his bedroom window. And he's never had this great of an understanding with someone, and he doesn't want to let it go, refuses to leave this cabin, this bed, refuses to leave her side. He'll stay here, even as the sun rises and the crew with it, even when they begin to speculate on his whereabouts, when they see he isn't in his own room or catches him leaving her's. In this moment, in their short seclusion on the waves of the Narrow Sea, he'll pretend that the world isn't so horrible, that it isn't in need of saving, and that their love won't end tragically, for it is to wholly good to end anyway else. Though, mayhaps it isn't good at all, for the trouble it's sure to cause.


End file.
